


Flight of the Bird and Dagger

by ashiragm



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Game of Thrones Spoilers, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-08 04:23:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18887110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashiragm/pseuds/ashiragm
Summary: Daenerys Targaryen seized the Iron Throne in 305 AC, destroying King's Landing and smiting anybody with either a blood claim or political opposition. Now that she has reclaimed her family's throne and the Seven Kingdoms, she wants to reclaim the land of her ancestors: the Valyrian Freehold. The prosperous island kingdom of Jachram lies in a geopolitically advantageous position within the Freehold, and Daenerys embarks on her conquest. The peaceful land falls and its rulers, House Avramin, are laid to waste, but one slips through the cracks--Liora Avramin, aged but ten-and-three, the daughter of the late Moshri and Mirima, and Sarha of Jachram. When she and Maester Holteur flee, sending two body doubles to die in their place on a boat bound to Lys, Daenerys thinks she is rid of House Avramin and continues on her conquest, but a young girl with powerful secrets lives on. As long as she lives, House Avramin is as their motto says: "Free to fly."





	Flight of the Bird and Dagger

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place within the universe of the HBO television show Game of Thrones, not the GRRM book series, although at times I look to the book series for information I need which the TV show doesn't include. All characters besides my OCs are property of HBO and GRRM. This is just a fan work, not meant to be profited off of in any way. The only characters and places I own are the ones not included in GoT or ASOIAF. I'm just doing this for fun so it's not going to be perfect; if you see a mistake in the lore or have a critique of any kind, I'm happy to hear it! I only ask that it be constructive and polite. Thank you!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How it all started. Liora learns the meaning of "fire and blood." The young Sarha, Maester Holteur, and Jaime Lannister flee Jachram for a small layover in Lys on their way to the northern reaches of Westeros, where they hope to seek refuge from a people who hate their queen.

“No, not there. Here. This way.”

Liora Avramin clutched the hand of the Maester as they quickly went down the left fork of the catacombs.

“This tunnel leads to the sea. Come.”

The air was dank, and water dripped from small cracks in the ceiling which now felt as if they were hanging lower than before. With each blast of dragon fire that rained down upon the city, the tunnel would quake and water droplets that had been in suspension dropped all at once. The girl would stop and tuck her head down, attempting to raise her arms to cover herself, but the Maester didn’t allow it and continued to pull her along.

“I know you’re afraid, but we must keep going.”

She resigned herself. Liora, only ten-and-three, knew nothing of war and conquest, let alone what a Targaryen was and why it was here. She knew of her dolls and the beautiful gold hilt of her father’s sword, of the sunshine of Jachram and the warm, salty sea lapping at the edges of golden sand, of her sweet augury bird, Julep, who told her of things that may happen, like lessons the Maester had planned or if there would be fig tarts during evening tea. She knew of the joys of Jachram, of her peaceful land and its peaceful people. She knew of solitude in the sea and the market in the morning, filled with goods from all over Essos and some of Westeros. She never knew the shaking tunnels and the sound of screams above her. She knew nothing of what burning flesh smelled like.

Liora and Maester Holteur came to the large wooden door at the end of the tunnel. The Maester slid the thick wooden plank back from the frame and dialed a combination in a small gold lock that was embedded in the door, hidden behind the plank. The lock clicked and Maester Holteur pushed the door open. He took Liora’s hand once more and she followed him through. Just a few yards from the shore, there was a sloop with the flag of House Avramin blazing in the sunlight; the fabric was bright red, almost the color of blood, and there was an augury bird and a dagger emblazoned upon it in shimmering golden thread. It waved in the soft winds of the sea as the people of Jachram screamed above them, though this was periodically blocked out by the shrieks of the dragon and the propulsion of the flames from its throat smashing into buildings with such force they almost collapsed. On the shore stood a man and a young child in Jachramian garb.

“Sarha,” Maester Holteur said, bending to her level, “this is where we depart. Your mother has tasked me with keeping you safe and this is what we need to do to make sure I can do that.”

“Are we getting on the boat?” she asked with concern. She liked boats, but this felt so inexplicably wrong. She wanted to stay on land, to go back to her bedchamber, to pray to the Mother at the Arc in the temple of the fortress, Augury Keep.

“We’re getting on a boat, yes, but not the sloop out there. That boat will leave before us; it will set sail for Westeros and will distract the enemy. They will think you are on that boat and they will go after it because the people here—”

The dragon shrieked its mighty cry once again.

“The people here are very bad, and they want to hurt you. So, we will trick them, and you and I will leave on a much smaller boat.”

“Where are we going? Where are mother and father? And Ephrinum?”

“They cannot come with us, Sarha Liora. We will see them again soon. We’re going to sail to Lys; it is far enough and large enough that we should be able to lose them for a bit. There, we will board another ship which will sail south of Westeros and up to the North. You will be safe there.”

Liora swallowed hard. She wondered when her family would be meeting them, but she figured that she could ask on the boat. She had never seen the Maester so worried.

They approached the pair. The child had piercing blue eyes, and was probably from northeastern Jachram where the concentration of Valyrian blood was higher. She stared at Liora with them. Liora averted her own eyes. The Maester was whispering to the man, who looked so much like the Maester she had to do a double take. They both looked like the Andals she saw in her books on the history of Westeros and Essos.

“You will sail for Weeping Town; House Avramin has trade allies there, so it is logical. We will depart for Lys just south of here. If all goes according to plan, the Targaryens come for you instead of us.”

“I know.”

“ _Rachamam runleid.”_

_“Rachamam breishei.”_

They had switched from common tongue to Chatar, and Liora recognized the phrases: _Long live your body. Long live your soul._

The man and the child swam out to the sloop, her ornate red cloak (usually only worn by the royal family) billowing in the water behind them like a cloud of blood. His grey robes were like roused sand. Liora looked up at the Maester.

“Thank the Mother for that man and child in your prayers tonight, Liora—they are going to die for you.”

Maester said words like these because he knew they would be remembered. Someday, when she was older and sat atop a throne worthy of her name and her mind, Liora would remember the words he said, and she would thank the Mother that a man and child died to save her when she was but a lamb. He hoped.

In a small alcove of rock was a tiny boat that was essentially a dingy with a small sail. A man sat in the boat. Liora knew him somehow but could not remember his name. She wasn’t sure if she had ever actually met him or had just seen him around Augury Keep, or perhaps on the streets of the city, Eshir. She knew that shag of blond hair, those gleaming green eyes haunted by something, though she knew not what it was.

“Ser Jaime,” Maester Holteur said, “thank you for coming. This escape is…well, it must work.”

“Of course,” Ser Jaime said. “I know what she is capable of. I’ve seen it.”

“Yes, unfortunately so. I am sorry for the fate of your home. However, the escape of an Avramin child is paramount. We really must go.”

The Maester got Liora into the boat, her light silks gathering at the knee as she picked them up to step over the side. The Maester had a small black velvet sack on his back, and he placed it under the seat in the boat. It hit the wood with a dull thud, as if he had placed down a bag full of rocks. Jaime looked at the Maester, who nodded his head. Jaime’s eyes widened in shock.

“How did you—”

“We will discuss it during the ride to Lys, now hurry, Ser Jaime.”

“Maester Holteur, what’s happening? Julep told me—” Liora’s voice, which had been remarkably calm until this point, was beginning to betray her anxiety. Perhaps it was the shock of her family’s home been blown to bits by dragon fire, or the paralyzing fear of seeing an army of black-helmeted soldiers marching towards her home, but whatever it was seemed to be wearing off.

“Sarha Liora, we’ll discuss it later. Now I need you to lay down here under the seats with me, like this.”

Maester Holteur slid his body under the three elevated benches the spanned the body of the dingy; he was a slight man, short and thin, with a mind sharp as a needle. His eyes were dark blue and all-knowing, and his salt and pepper hair was cropped short. Wrinkles were beginning to crease his face as his age caught up to him. Liora, a girl of slightly taller build for her age, slid in next to him, and Ser Jaime threw a sheet of heavy fabric over the two of them. Under this fabric, so close to the Maester, Liora could feel his warm breath and the trembling of his body. He muttered prayers in his mother tongue.

“Maester,” Liora whispered, “Will we—”

The Maester pressed a finger to her lips. He mouthed, “no talking.” She understood that until they reached land again, there would be no words. As she felt Ser Jaime push the boat from the shore of the alcove and the familiar fluidity of water buoyed the boat below their back, Liora could not help but feel that perhaps she would never feel land again—that she would never utter another word. She longed for her mother in that moment. She wanted to feel her warmth and know that it would all be okay. She wanted to sword fight with her father. She wanted to swim with her brother. She wanted Eshir; she wanted Jachram.

The journey was long; Liora remembers that much. She remembers the screams, too, fading into the distance as they slipped away from the island. The Avramin armada was holding off the navy of the bad people, but on land they stood no chance against the dragon and the army. As an island nation, they were skilled at naval warfare, but had never experienced a land conflict. In fact, they hardly experienced any conflict; in her thirteen years in this world, Liora could not remember a single battle. Her people were peace loving. They had thrown off the chains once and had vowed to not put the chains on anybody else, nor accept them on their own wrists, and so they stayed out of conflict. They traded with other free cities of Essos, but despised all Westerosi for their cruel ways, only engaging in any type of contact with the Dornish people of the South and occasionally, those in the far reaches of the North.

 

* * *

 

 

            When they arrived on the shore of Lys a full day later, Liora felt as if she could breathe for the first time. She didn’t expect to feel the harsh crunch of land under the wooden boards of the boat again; she thought she would forever be buoyed and that she and the Maester and the strange Ser Jaime would die in complete and utter silence (with the exception of waves and dragon shrieks in the distance, of course.) The heavy cloth was removed from her face and she saw that it was dark out.

            “Come now, time to get up,” Jaime said, “we’re in Lys, Lady Liora.”

            “I am not a lady,” Liora corrected him. “I’m a Sarha. Sarha Liora.”

            “Sarha? You Jachramians are strange, I’ve never heard such a thing.”

            “I believe, in common tongue, she would be referred to as ‘Princess’, Ser Jaime.”

            “Like the Dornish?”

            “Exactly. There is a link between the Dornish and the Jachramian, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

            Before Jaime could answer that no, he did not know of this link, the Maester urged them that they must seek physical shelter. The Maester knew of an underground ruin, an old temple of the Faith of the Seven. There were many religions on Lys, and so there were many old ruins of different temples. The Maester thought it would be good to go somewhere that is not the religion of the Mother, the only religion practiced on Jachram. The three went to those ruins and among the dank stone, began to hash out a plan.

            “Have you any allies here? Is there anybody who would take in an Avramin?” Jamie asked. Liora noticed his gold hand glinting in the flame of their torch from under his sleeve.

            “Yes,” the Maester said. “House Avramin has a good relationship with the Ormollen family, merchant Lords of Lys, built on decades of mutual economic benefit and peace treaties. Go to the home of Lord Tregar Ormollen and seek his aid, Ser Jaime. I don’t doubt he will treat us kindly.”

            “Where is it?”

            “It’s in the city center, south of the great library. It should be upon a hill in the Pleasure District.”

            “Oh great, the Pleasure District. I’m guessing that’s the part of the city with all the whore houses?”

            “No need for such names; they did not choose that life.”

            Jaime is silent, and he nods and leaves the ruins. Liora and Maester Holteur sit in silence then, just the two of them, alone on this strange island.

            “Sleep, Liora. It has been a long few days.”

            “I cannot sleep, Maester.”

            The Master sighed. “I understand, but you must try. You need to rest your body and mind. You must be strong.”

            “Maester, where is my family? What is happening to Jachram?”

            The Maester smoothed the fabric of his robes as he sat with her. In Jachram, a girl aged ten-and-three was still a girl. In Lys, in the rest of Essos, and certainly in Westeros, ten-and-three was a woman. The Maester wanted to treat her as a girl, to preserve her youth and her innocence and her happiness for as long as he possibly could; he wanted her to live as a Jachramian girl who would be a woman when she was aged ten-and-six, but a Jachramian girl she would be no longer. The Maester knew they would not be going bad. His heart ached with pity for the girl in front of him, with her large eyes so full of hope for a future she was promised and now would never have.

            “The land of Westeros is violent and full of war. For the past seven years, the Houses of Westeros have been warring over the Iron Throne, which rules over all Seven Kingdoms of the land. Early this year, the dragon Queen Daenerys Targaryen won the throne. She destroyed the city where it resided, killed all other blood heirs to the throne and anybody who could militarily challenge her. She burned them all. Now, she is continuing the legacy of her family and is reconquering parts of Essos that used to be within the Valyrian freehold, which includes Jachram. The Dornish helped us to win our independence soon after Lys did, and we have been free since. Daenerys wants Jachram and Lys back, however, as her ancestors conquered the land hundreds of years ago.

            “When she wants something, she burns it. She burns those who oppose her rule. Jachramians vowed to bend the knee to nobody after we became free, and your father and mother, they maintained that. Ephrinum is commanding the armies. They are fighting Targaryen rule as we speak. You, however, were too precious to risk, and so they sent us off. We will flee to where you are safe.”

            “Are we not safe here in Lys?”

            “No, Sarha Liora, we are not. Lys has strong ties to the Targaryens and did not put up a fight when it came to conquest; they have been under their control for days now. We are safe to be here until the ship we need arrives. From there, we escape to lands unhospitable to her rule.”

            Liora’s eyes welled with tears. Two days ago, she was picking oranges with her cousin, Rachlina, to scent their hair oil. Her family was set to have a meeting with a merchant family of Braavos to see if they were fit to betroth their children to each other; her brother was to wed the daughter of a prominent family of the Summer Islands in five weeks’ time. It was a love match. Now, everything was different. A woman she didn’t know who sat atop a throne she had only heard of, never seen, wanted her dead. Her family was in danger. In her heart of hearts, she knew that they were probably dead, but hope burned in her like the flame in the Arc of the Mother.

            Liora laid down—she did need to sleep, after all, and she did not know when she would have the chance to do so again. “I’ll sleep for an hour, and then you can sleep, Maester.”

            “No, no, don’t worry about me. You sleep for as long as you need.”

            The stone ruins were uncomfortable, and it was only now that Liora began to notice that everything _hurts_. Every muscle and tissue, even her bones, ached from the journey. She was covered in bruises from debris which had fallen on her, from having to drop to the ground to avoid being burned or seen or hit, and now it was like she had been kicked all over.

            “Free to fly.”

            The Maester whispered the motto of House Avramin to himself, and Liora opened her eyes and looked up at him. He looked down at her, offered a small smile. She thought he may have been crying but couldn’t quite tell by the light of the torch. He looked smaller than ever, though.

            “Free to fly,” she repeated.  

            Liora drifted off to sleep. She prayed to the Mother for a vision in her dream so she may have some inkling of what might happen when she woke, but her dreams were empty. All she could hear was the lapping of waves and she could see nothing but a bleak span of black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So this is just something I thought would be fun. I know that season 8 has been absolutely atrocious, but I thought that if I changed a few things about season 8 and then added all this stuff I thought of that it could be pretty cool! Some notes on pronunciation and new places/people:   
> -all "ch" sounds are similar to the "ch" sound in Hebrew. It's a glottal, phlegmatic sound. If you don't know what I'm talking about, just look up a video of someone speaking Hebrew!  
> -Charti (CHAR-tea): the native language of Jachram. characterized by the "ch" sounds and the slightly rolled "r" sounds  
> -Jachram (jahch-RAHM): a small island kingdom just north of Lys and south of the Disputed Lands of Essos (I made this place up)  
> -House Avramin (AH-vrah-meen): the ruling house of Jachram. More will be revealed about them later.  
> -Aurgury Keep: the fortress/castle of Jachram. Located in the capital city, Eshir, and home to House Avramin.  
> -Eshir (ehsh-ear): capital city of Jachram  
> -"Rachamam runleid" (RA-chah-mahm roon-LAID): long live your body in Charti  
> -"Rachamam breishei" (RA-chah-mahm bray-shay): long live your soul in Charti  
> -Liora (lee-OH-rah)  
> -Ephrinum (eff-RYE-num)  
> -Holteur (hole-terr)  
> -Sarha (SAR-ha)   
> -Rachlina (RACH-lee-nuh)


End file.
